Extraordinary Ordinary

Changing Decades Again?

My husband and I first experienced this phenomenon on my twentieth birthday. I told my then-boyfriend, “Someday, I might even turn 30.”

He looked deep into my eyes. “Let’s grow old together.”

I reveled in our romantic moment—until he, who would not change decades for another six months, said, “Of course, you’ll always be older than me.”

He almost didn’t make it past his teens.

Facing this recent age shift, however, proved harder than facing 20, even if “60 is the new 40.” Yet, who am I to buck mathematical progress? Not only would I like those “60 is the new 40” folks to track my age, I wish they would check my weight. And work for the IRS.

I went further, embracing “60 is the new 30.” Changing decades this last time reminded me of pregnancy. The same gradual belly expansion, losing sight of feet. Wearing the same two waistless outfits, despite a full closet.

Visiting a new restaurant, I didn’t wonder, “Is the food good?” or “Are prices reasonable?” Instead, I asked, “Where are the restrooms?” and “What’s your antacid du jour?”

Still, changing decades again proved more positive than I anticipated.

Years ago, I read in a women’s magazine about an hour make-up regimen for joggers. Seriously.

Today, no one expects me to wear three kinds of lip gloss when I exercise. And run? Spectators applaud if I walk, displaying only mild cardiac symptoms.

Turning 60 also provided peace and quiet. Phone surveyors demanding input from the 35-to-59-year-old crowd suddenly lost interest in my views on Daylight Savings Time, potholes, sock replacement and the Theory of Relativity. I miss sharing my opinions. But what are relatives for?

Travel presents positives, too. When I was younger, flight attendants glared while I heaved my fat carry-on into a compartment. Now — especially if I clutch my back — they heave it for me and later extract it like a wisdom tooth.

That courtesy can’t compare, though, with my first-ever school lunch with my granddaughter. We ate in a claustrophobic room vibrating with jet-engine-decibel noise. Yet that dining experience rated five stars.

Not that I turned down a grown-up dinner out to celebrate my 60th with my spouse. Not only has he increased in wisdom, but I’ve mellowed, too. Maturity is our byword now. …

Na-na-na-boo-boo! I received the senior discount, and he didn’t.

How do you celebrate changing decades? Cruises? Trips to Paris? Extra prune juice?

Rachael, you never fail to make me laugh! And I identify with this. When I think about our college days I see that first picture. We were young and optimistic. The guys had long hair, and we had even longer hair. And our waistlines were oh so tiny and our glasses were oh so big. But the second picture reflects love and happiness that comes from maturation physically, mentally, and spiritually. It reflects love and happiness that comes from a lifetime of devotion to God, devotion to spouse, devotion to family. It reflects love and happiness that comes from knowing that we have been blessed beyond measure and that we will grow old together. Blessings to you today, and to your “much younger” hubby.

Sara, Thanks so much for your comments and our lo-o-ong friendship. What a perfect description of our college days together! How glad I am that despite life’s hard knocks and the absence of tiny waistlines (though the big glasses are coming back :-), we have our faith in Christ, our guys and families, and the promise of a bright forever. Whoa, are we blessed, or what? Hugs.

You made me laugh and warmed my heart, as usual, Rachael. I’m trying to look at the 60s with extreme gratitude. I look around at friends who are suffering health problems or the loss of a spouse, and I just want to face every day with being grateful for what I have. Not that I don’t cringe when I look in the mirror most mornings . . . 😉

Becky, I know exactly what you mean! Shouldn’t mirrors be outlawed around women of a certain age? Just sayin’.

Although you definitely have no reason to feel that way, lovely lady! I’m sure new acquaintances are astounded to find out you’re a grandmother–not to mention, that a wonderful horde of precious kids call you “Grandma.”

Yes, I am learning to be thankful for this life season as well–as I learned to give thanks for our early studio apartment with its ugly fold-out sofa, for a claustrophobic houseful of toddlers that refused to be potty-trained, and years when my minivan became my permanent address. How glad we are that we don’t travel alone!